


No Harm Done

by sock_bealady



Series: The Nature of Mercy [2]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Corporal Punishment, D/s themes, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, If You Squint - Freeform, Masochism, Whipping, pre-Athelstan/Ragnar - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-29 12:22:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3896140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sock_bealady/pseuds/sock_bealady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On his first raid into Russia, Athelstan is wound too tight.  When he's unable to let go of small mistakes, he starts taking it out on his comrades.  Ragnar doesn't know how to help him.</p><p>He works it out.</p><p>Set during the time jump in early Season 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Calm the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> I made a couple of assumptions for this fic where I couldn't find explanations in either canon or fanon. The first concerns what Ragnar's people did during those summers when they were rebuilding their numbers and couldn't raid the West. My thought is that they would have to raid east, if only to make ends meet. The next concerns whether the Wessex raid was Athelstan's first. I may be veering more from canon here, but I don't think so. In 2.02 he was just a little too cavalier about not wanting to be left behind with the old people. I tend to think Ragnar would have brought him on a raid to get his feet wet if at all possible, even if he didn't fight.
> 
> If I continue to add to this series, it will probably end up in giant mountains of angst, but this installment is relatively pain-free. Except in the literal sense.

The boat swayed with the motion of the oars—forward and back, forward and back. The rocking could never match the exhilaration of being tossed on the open ocean, but it was comforting in its predictability. Ragnar stared out towards shore, watching the Russian countryside drift by. Beyond the next ridge, a few wisps of smoke coalesced into a pale column. Torstein was quick to point it out, as if Ragnar had no eyes of his own. “There, a village?”

Ragnar shrugged apathetically. “Probably.”

The warrior huffed the way he did when he thought Ragnar was being slow. “Well? Shall we attack?”

The earl shook his head. “Not here. We aren’t far enough out yet.”

“We passed the last Swedish village days ago.”

“You don’t know that. Their borders are always expanding.”

“What are we here for, if not to raid?”

Ragnar rolled his eyes. “And you think we should _raid_ even if it might be our own allies? How do you suppose my liege lord will respond to that?” 

“Horik needs you at least as much as you do him.”

Ragnar rolled his shoulders. “Perhaps. All the same, we’re not raiding that village.” He turned and leaned against the hull, looking out over his raiders and the other two boats beyond them. If King Horik had had his way, they would be raiding into Northumbria at this very moment. But, Horik had never felt English iron turn a shield to splinters in his hand—had never seen arrows fly twice the distance arrows should. His men weren’t ready, and the English were certainly ready for _them._ He needed another year at least—one more season to make warriors out of the young ones before he set them against Aella and his armies.

His was not a popular opinion, even among his closest allies.

His eyes sought out Athelstan, perhaps looking for someone more likely to take his side. He found only more frustration. The Saxon was, thus far, not precisely enjoying his first raid. He sat curled near the prow, looking—and likely feeling—quite useless. He’d been rowing, but was hastily relieved of the duty when he kept fouling the oars. Now, he sat with a whetstone, sharpening an axe that had never tasted blood and certainly didn’t need honing.

Athelstan’s presence was yet another point of contention—another thing for his warriors to endlessly nag him about. It wasn’t that they doubted his loyalty, exactly—not against the Russians. Mostly, they just questioned his usefulness. He was the only one among them, after all, who did not wear an armband—who had not held sword and axe since he was tall enough to keep them off the ground, who was not _one of them_ in the ways that mattered. Ragnar had heard the rumblings—that the priest would have to be protected and coddled, that he couldn’t pull his own weight, that he would freeze in a fight and put others at risk. 

He would never admit it, but Ragnar shared their concerns—to a point. Athelstan had been training hard since Ragnar had first freed him and put an axe in his hand, but he did not have the proficiency of one who’d trained since childhood, and perhaps he never would. He was green and unblooded, and under ideal circumstances Ragnar would have kept him sparring on the shoreline for another year. But, they did not have enough warriors, currently, to turn away the able-bodied if they were even marginally competent. The next boat over held a sixteen-year-old girl who still looked more a child than a shieldmaiden. The one beyond that held three fifteen-year-old boys, all equally unblooded.

And next summer . . . next summer they would be in Northumbria, and Ragnar would need Athelstan at his side. His knowledge of the country gave them an advantage that could not be matched by scouting or strategy. And Ragnar could not ask him to raid against his own homeland without first giving him some taste of what raiding _was._

Tired of pointless arguments with Torstein, Ragnar crossed to the prow and squatted beside the Saxon. “Nervous?”

Athelstan shook his head, then colored a bit when he caught Ragnar’s look. “A little.”

“Good, then you’re only half a fool,” Ragnar said lightly.

Athelstan did not smile. His lips tightened and his whetstone raised sparks. “I feel _all_ the fool.”

Ragnar’s brow knotted at his glum, frustrated tone. “What, are you still ashamed of last night?”

“Shouldn’t I be?”

Ragnar sighed. The night before, a summer storm had rocked the little fleet. It had caught them by surprise, and they’d had to rush about, trimming sails and tying down supplies. Any knot could have given. Unfortunately, the one that _did_ give was Athelstan’s, and a whole barrel of salted fish was lost to the sea. “I’ve said it before, priest, it was an honest mistake. It could have happened to anyone.”

He snorted derisively. “That will be great comfort when we run out of rations on the journey home.”

“We will be fine. We’ll have plunder on the way home to make up the difference.”

“Provided the villages aren’t already picked over.”

Ragnar reached out and slapped the side of his head lightly. “From your lips to Loki’s ears. Shut up!”

Athelstan’s smile was fleeting. He lifted his whetstone again, but Ragnar took it away before he could ruin the new axe’s edge. “It’s just that it’s such a costly mistake,” he said at last. His limbs were drawn tight, like a bowstring in tiring fingers. “When I was a slave, you’d have beaten me for less than that. And as masters go, you were lenient.”

Ragnar ruffled his hair. It was long and tangled, untamed by braid or blade. “Well, you’re a free man, now.”

Athelstan’s face twisted. “I’m _free,_ at least.”

“I don’t know what the bother is, priest.” That was Floki. He was perched at the prow, balancing himself with one hand on the serpent’s head he’d carved. His tone and his face were mocking. “It’s only fish. Why don’t you just multiply what we have left and save us the trouble?”

Ragnar restrained himself from rolling his eyes. Like a rag absorbs oil, Floki had soaked up every tangential reference Athelstan had ever made to Christianity. He liked to mock the Saxon, now, with little reminders of his former faith.

“You know I’m not Christian anymore,” Athelstan growled, “Why don’t you ask Freyr to increase the harvest in our barrels?”

“Why don’t _you_ ask him?” the shipbuilder returned, “Or, barring that, why didn’t you just walk out on the sea and take the barrel back? Isn’t that what _your_ god would have done?”

Athelstan dropped his axe and stood. For one brief moment, his face was controlled. “You ought to try it some time.”

Floki blinked. “Try what?”

“Walking on _water._ ”

Before Ragnar could rise—before he even realized what was happening, Athelstan had thrown himself at Floki, tackled him around his middle, and carried both of them over the hull and into the water. There was a splash and then a nerve-wracking moment of silence before more splashing, accompanied by sputtering and cursing. By the time Ragnar reached the prow, Floki had his head above water but was flailing and screaming obscenities. Only half his energies went into keeping air in his lungs. The other half were wasted on trying to rain blows on Athelstan, but the Saxon simply swam away a few strokes and then turned and treaded water. As he watched Floki struggle, a very uncharitable smile tugged at his lips.

Torstein ran to the prow and dove in after them. The men fouled the oars trying to see what was happening. Though they were only a few feet from the hull, Floki managed to almost drown Torstein in his panic before Ragnar could catch hold of his collar and haul him to safety. Floki shook himself like a wet rat, still sputtering and calling down damnation on Athelstan’s ancestors. Once it was clear that no one had drowned, the men began to laugh, which only doubled the man’s fury.

After dragging Torstein back in, Ragnar poked his head over the side of the hull. The former priest was still treading water and still wearing a smirk that was half smug, half manic. Ragnar let his face grow stormy. “Athelstan.” The man looked up at him, like he had forgotten his existence prior to that moment. Ragnar’s eyes hardened even further. “Get back in this boat before I decide to leave you behind.”

Looking like a chastened child, Athelstan swam over, offered his arm, and let Ragnar haul him—none too gently—into the boat. After he tossed the smaller man to the deck, Ragnar seized a fistful of his sopping tunic. “What were you thinking? You could have killed him!”

Athelstan looked as though that prospect had not even occurred to him. “I . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t think . . .” He caught himself. “I didn’t know he couldn’t swim.”

“Bullshit!” Ragnar gave him a rough shake that made his head clunk into the hull.

Athelstan blinked, and suddenly his vicious glee was gone, replaced by the same tense apprehension that he had worn all day. “I’m sorry.”

“Not as sorry as you will be,” Ragnar promised. He threw him down again and stood, looking at the others. The men had put up the oars and gathered around. It was as near to a Thing as they needed. “Who will support punishment for this man,” he called out, “Who all but drowned one of his comrades?”

Floki was still flicking water off of his clothes and gasping like a fish. He threw his hand in the air so hard his feet left the ground. The men’s chuckles redoubled, but they began raising their hands as well. Torstein was shaking his head ruefully, but his hand went up, convincing the last of the hold-outs. When it was unanimous, Ragnar gave a short nod and turned to Torstein. “Tie him to the mast and then _get me a whip._ ”

He didn’t look at Athelstan as he was hauled up and dragged away. If he had, he might have seen the glimmer of triumph on his face.

Athelstan’s tunic and shirt was taken away. While Floki watched and cackled, he was shoved against the mast and his wrists were tied. Ragnar used the time afforded by these preparations to calm down. He drew a few steadying breaths and shook his head, as if the last five minutes were a hallucination that he could shake off. If he was honest, half of his anger was driven by fear. Floki _could_ have drowned. It would not have taken much—just a poorly-timed breath drawn in panic, a knock to his head from the hull, a minute’s delay in Torstein’s response. More than that, though, unpredictability was disturbing—especially in Athelstan. Ragnar was used to his warriors’ tempers and Floki’s inexplicable behavior, but he’d never expected that sort of outburst from the Saxon. For all that he no longer called himself a priest, the younger man’s gentleness and forbearance still drew attention and occasional mockery. For him to almost drown Floki—even in jest—the strain of the journey must be worse than he’d thought.

Perhaps everyone besides Ragnar was right, and Athelstan wasn’t ready to raid. Perhaps he would never be ready.

Torstein brought him back to himself by pushing a many-tailed flogger into his hands. Ragnar took quick but careful note of it and gave the warrior a grateful nod. This was the whip he would have chosen, had he been in any state to decide such things—neither too sharp nor too soft, the leather tails oiled and well-tended, the tips bearing no thorns or sharp pieces, which might cause true injury. Straightening, he shook out the whip, then his arm, and turned to the mast.

Athelstan stood with his back to him. His breaths were coming steadily and he did not tremble. Ragnar was struck, briefly, by how few scars marred the still-pale skin. Only one of those had come from Ragnar’s whip, and it was faint and nearly faded. There had been a few training accidents and two or three unfortunate incidents involving farming tools. Aside from that, his body was untouched. The fresh tattoo over his ribs looked out of place.

Ragnar stepped close and touched his shoulder with the butt of the flogger. He’d expected to find fear, or at least anxiety, wrapping his muscles into knots. To his surprise, Athelstan seemed calmer than he had been all day. The bowstring tension was loosening from his shoulders and even his breaths seemed freer. “Look at me,” Ragnar ordered quietly, keeping his voice cool. Athelstan turned his head. His eyes, too, were a little softer—a little more like himself. “Athelstan. You attacked a fellow warrior and might have done him serious harm. For this, your sentence is twenty lashes. Do you accept this judgment?”

“I do.” Athelstan’s voice was clear.

Ragnar stepped back and waved for him to turn his head. He took a moment to judge the right stance and weigh the weapon in his hand.

The first blow hit just below the shoulder blades. It was lighter than those to come, but still hard enough to smart. Athelstan hissed. Ragnar landed another blow just above it, and a third just below, bringing blood to the area that would bear the whipping. His fourth strike was harder, but after it landed, Ragnar broke the rhythm to reset his stance. That blow had come far too close to wrapping around Athelstan’s body and doing him serious injury. All the same, he did not lighten the blows, and the next drew a small grunt from the man.

By the time the punishment was half-finished, Athelstan was crying out with every blow. The twelfth strike drew a trickle of blood. This was a harsher punishment than Ragnar had ever given him before. It had to be so; the crimes of a free man mattered more than the small failures of a slave. He would have scars from this one, though they would fade in time.

On the twentieth lash, Athelstan let out a mostly-stifled sob. His back now bore a half-dozen shallow cuts in addition to the red welts. He was gripping the mast hard, but he had not fallen. Ragnar let the whip drop and looked at Floki. The shipbuilder’s rage had calmed—quieted by his attacker’s pain. He gave Ragnar a nod, mollified.

Ragnar glanced at one of the other men. “Get the sea water.” As they drew a bucket, Ragnar stepped closer to Athelstan and lowered his voice. “Brace yourself.” Athelstan’s shoulders tensed a second before the salt water crashed into his back, drawing his loudest cry yet. Ragnar had to work to keep the sympathy from his face. Being doused in sea water afterwards was often the worst part of an on-board whipping, but the salt would clean the wounds and help them to heal without complications. With a flutter of his fingers, Floki turned away and returned to his perch at the prow. Torstein approached to cut Athelstan loose, but Ragnar waved him away and drew his own knife. “What are you all looking at?” he barked at the assembled men, “Back on the oars, or we’ll never get there!”

As the crowd dispersed, Ragnar approached Athelstan and cut through the rope at his wrists. Keeping a steadying hand on his shoulder, he knelt with him as the other man’s legs buckled at last. “Take a minute,” Ragnar said quietly. Athelstan’s breaths were coming in quick gasps. His eyes squeezed shut as he fought against the burning in his back . . . and overcame it. His face slowly relaxed and softened—not as if the sting was fading but as if he was sinking into it, the way a dancer sinks into a stretch. Ragnar squeezed his shoulder to distract him. “The next time you have to put Floki in his place,” he said, “Kindly leave off the mortal danger. Or at least don’t do it in front of me.”

Athelstan’s breaths were still coming too fast, but he let out a sound that might have been a laugh. Ragnar stayed with him for a few moments more.

“Are you alright?” he asked at last.

Athelstan’s eyes closed, then opened. Tension was rapidly leaving his body. His muscles were slack in its wake. “Yes. I think I am.” His voice was clear, if a little rough.

Ragnar squeezed the back of his neck, where seawater was drying into crystals. “Idiot.”

But, his tone was gentle and it brought a hint of a smile to Athelstan’s face.

Ragnar left him alone, but his mind lingered on that little smile for the rest of the day.


	2. Free People

Their last night in Russia, the men tried to make a show of celebrating. It had been an easy raid, as such things go. The resistance they’d met could not be called a battle. To term it a skirmish was to be generous. Every village they’d struck had been quick to surrender and appease.

But it had quickly become clear that they had little worth taking. While Ragnar had been preoccupied—first with the West and then with Jarl Borg—the Swedes had been striking this region hard. It seemed every scrap of gold or silver had been carried away or buried too deep for even all-seeing Odin to find. They’d taken food—grain stores, vegetables, smoked and salted meats—which would help in the coming winter, but they would have nothing to fall back on should these offerings be lost or spoiled. 

Many villages had all but begged them to take their share in slaves. Ragnar wondered at this, but it quickly became clear that these were the mouths the Russians could not afford to feed. Loathe though he was to take on their burdens as his own, he selected a few of the stronger men and women. The plague in Kattegat had been devastating for slave and free alike.

The night before they set off for home, the men seized a handful of pigs, roasted them, and tried to boast, though there was little to brag of. The green warriors were still unblooded and one of the fifteen-year-olds had broken his ankle. Their loot amounted to subsistence. If the villagers were lucky and had a good harvest, there might be enough of them left to feed more starving raiders next year. Ragnar wandered between the campfires, trying to be genial despite his frustration with the whole exercise. 

At the edge of camp, a cluster of men were hooting and yelling. Ragnar grabbed a drinking horn and moved in that direction, hoping they’d found some amusing diversion, even if it was only a particularly fierce game of throwing bones. From the mingled calls and laughter, he suspected a fight. Ragnar did not tolerate anything as serious or dangerous as personal combat, but fistfights and wrestling matches were hardly uncommon, particularly after raids when the men’s blood was up. The fights let out frustrations, resolved tensions between comrades, and gave the others something to wager on. Though, after this raid they might as well be betting in turnips.

“Two coppers says he breaks his arm!” a young warrior called out as Ragnar drew near. Ragnar shot him a cool look that went unnoticed and made a mental note to have this . . . boy put in extra time on the oars on the way home. Perhaps that would teach him not to wish injury on a fellow warrior.

As he drew near, the crowd parted a little without appearing to notice him. Ragnar made eye contact here and there, offered a firm nod or a congratulatory word, and worked his way towards the center of the little ring.

In the open space left by the spectators, Torstein was fighting Athelstan. Ragnar blinked twice and rubbed his eyes, just to make sure it was not an illusion brought on by drink or sleep deprivation. The scene stubbornly refused to resolve into one that made sense. The most easy-going of Ragnar’s warriors was still locked in combat with the gentlest of his almost-warriors. It was an unequal fight. That much was evident to all, save perhaps Athelstan. The men were laughing and Torstein’s defense was almost mockingly restrained. Both men were on their feet and grappling, but Ragnar saw at once the errors in Athelstan’s stance. Sure enough, Torstein’s foot shot out and hooked the smaller man’s ankle, dumping him to the ground. The crowd roared and jeered. Torstein turned to receive their appreciation, grinning and flexing his biceps.

Athelstan shoved himself to his feet, an intense scowl on his face. He rushed at Torstein as if to take advantage of his apparent distraction, but the warrior dodged his reckless charge and sent him back to the ground with a slap to the back of the head. The laughter redoubled. Athelstan sat up, spitting out dirt, and tried another charge. This time, Torstein caught him on his shoulder the way he might catch an enemy on his shield. With a quick twist and an almost careless application of strength, he sent Athelstan flying past him and almost _over_ him. For an instant, Ragnar thought the fool from before would make good on his wager of two pennies. He saw Athelstan panic, saw him throw out an arm, but Torstein saw too and caught his sleeve, turning a fall that would have shattered his arm into one that merely bruised his pride and his behind. By chance or Torstein’s design, he landed almost at Ragnar’s feet.

Torstein turned and swaggered away, accepting a drink from Floki as the crowd roared. Ragnar bent down and hauled Athelstan to his feet. He had to steady him for a moment when it seemed he might fall again. “Go get a drink, my friend. You’ve had enough.”

Athelstan looked up at him, still wearing that glare that looked so alien on his face. “I . . .”

“Go.”

He turned and stormed away, ignoring mocking pats on the back from the others. Ragnar sipped his ale as if unconcerned and picked his way across the rapidly dissolving open space. He met Torstein halfway and clunked his tankard against his in toast. After slinging a companionable arm around his shoulders, he lowered his voice to speak directly into Torstein’s ear. “What was all that about?”

Torstein sighed and shook his head, though his face still held the traces of a grin. “He was spoiling for a fight,” he said, lowering his own voice so that Floki could not hear, “I thought it better if it was me.”

Ragnar snorted and ground his teeth. Spoiling for a fight. Athelstan. Wonderful. He could easily follow Torstein’s logic, though; better that he be dumped to the dirt by a friend than by any of the dozens of warriors who would make a sport of hurting him. Ragnar clapped him in the chest, dripping a little of his ale onto Torstein’s tunic. “You thought rightly.” 

He squeezed Torstein’s neck and turned to go, but the other man caught his arm. “Talk to him, Ragnar. Whatever he needs, it’s not a pummeling from me.”

Ragnar gave him a meaningless smile and detached himself from the little cluster of men and women. He found Athelstan skulking by another fire, surrounded by people but somehow apart from everyone. He stood still—too still—and just stared into the flames. Ragnar tried to press a horn of ale into his hand, and when the Saxon did not take it, he let it drop, splashing ale over both their boots. “So, you think yourself a tavern brawler, now.”

Athelstan looked to him, then away just as fast. “I was under the impression that a simple quarrel was no crime. Not between free men, at least.”

Athelstan clearly wanted him to back off, so Ragnar stepped closer, hooking his free hand over Athelstan’s shoulder and resting his chin on his knuckles. “It isn’t. But free _smart_ men know better than to start fights with warriors who could turn them into mincemeat.”

Athelstan tried to jerk his shoulder away, but Ragnar would not be budged. “I held my own.”

At this, Ragnar actually grinned. “Sure, you held your own. Like Bjorn used to with me.”

This time, Athelstan managed to shake Ragnar off. “If I’ve committed no crime, then I don’t see how it’s any of your concern, _my lord._ ”

Ragnar blithely ignored his attempt to distance himself. “Tell me, how _did_ you manage to get Torstein angry with you? I’ve been trying to do that for years.”

The younger man let his head drop and shook it slowly. “He . . . stepped in, I suppose. I was arguing with . . . some of the other men. He got me to fight before I could come to blows with . . . them.”

Good, so Athelstan was not as oblivious as he was pretending. From his frustrated grimace, “other men” meant “Floki,” but that was a headache for another time. “What were you arguing about?”

“You can imagine. Whether I deserved to be here. Especially after that fire three nights ago.”

“Are you still tied in knots over that?”

Athelstan turned and began to pace between the fires, not meeting Ragnar’s gaze, even as he kept pace with him. “It certainly isn’t helping. He has a point. I know that, now.”

Ragnar tried to smother his irritation. More bad luck. Athelstan had been on sentry duty three nights before when they dealt with the last of the villagers’ resistance. The tributes had already been paid, but a few of the bitter young Russians had decided that if they couldn’t keep their crops, no one would have them. They’d crept into camp, sneaking past Athelstan and three other guards, and lit one of the tribute wagons on fire before they were noticed. Ragnar’s men had driven them off in short order, but Athelstan’s shame lingered all the same.

“Nothing was lost,” he pointed out. It was partially true. The lightly roasted onions recovered from the wagon paired nicely with the pork, after all.

“It was careless. What if they’d come to kill people rather than destroy food?”

“Then they’d have failed. You saw how those peasants fight. They’d cut off their own feet before they managed to hurt one of us.” Athelstan didn’t respond. “It was a small matter,” Ragnar continued, “Swinging axes at people’s heads is an imprecise profession. Mistakes will happen.”

Athelstan’s face did not change. “It won’t always be small mistakes,” he said, “And they won’t always be easily remedied.”

Ragnar stared at him, momentarily at a loss. Aside from those difficult days after Uppsala, he’d never seen Athelstan so restive—and over such insignificant matters. The younger man’s face was tense and he seemed . . . trapped somehow. He spun in endless circles of self-doubt, wanting to break free but not seeming to understand how. 

Ragnar had seen this kind of behavior from him before, though not to this degree. The furrowed brow, the strange stillness interspersed with restless energy, the self-castigation were all signs that he’d shown in earlier years as Ragnar’s slave. Most often, he would work himself up after making some mistake born of carelessness or discontent. His conscience was prone to Christian guilt, whatever his tongue might say. Before, though, he’d always settled down quickly after . . .

After Ragnar punished him.

_“When I was your slave, you’d have beaten me for less than that . . .”_

Ragnar looked at him sharply, seeing the man’s disquiet in a new light. Something would have to be done about that tension, and Athelstan did not seem capable of simply letting things go.

He turned away from the camp and towards the woods. “Come with me.”

Athelstan turned, startled, and had to trot to catch up with Ragnar’s purposeful stride. “Where are we going?”

“Away. Before you seek out any more ill-advised fistfights.” 

Ragnar snatched up a torch as they reached the edge of camp. Athelstan followed him into the thick conifers, though his confusion was clear. Ragnar’s steps were lighter than they had been all day. This was a problem he could _fix._

They reached a tiny clearing, scattered with rain-smoothed boulders. Ragnar considered for a moment. The thick trees hid them from view and they were far enough from camp that casual conversation would not carry. All the same, they could be heard if they yelled loud enough. It was as good a place as he was likely to find. He stuck the torch into the ground and turned to face the waiting Saxon. “There’s something I want you to do.”

Athelstan’s brow was furrowed. “What’s that?”

Ragnar kept his face still, letting neither smile nor frown influence his words. He gestured towards a rock that rose to about waist height. “I want you to take off your tunic and shirt and lie over that boulder, on your belly.”

Athelstan’s face froze, but his hands twitched towards his tunic, as if he’d begun to obey without thinking about it. Then he remembered himself, and a surly scowl spread across his face. “I’m a free man, now,” he reminded Ragnar, “You can’t beat me without first convicting me before an assembly.”

Now, Ragnar let a hint of a smile play across his lips. He stepped close and lowered his voice. “No, I can’t. And, as a free man, you are not bound by anything I say here. There is no reason for you to do as I’ve asked. Unless . . .”

Athelstan blinked. He was staring at Ragnar’s face, as if mesmerized. “Unless?”

Ragnar closed the last half step between them and clasped the man’s face between both his hands. “I won’t be angry or disappointed, whichever you choose. You know better than I what you need. Admitting that is part of being a free man.”

Athelstan drew back a step, and Ragnar let him go. The younger man looked down at the ground and then up at Ragnar, conflict and shame raging across his face. Ragnar waited him out, wondering why he’d never noticed this . . . _need_ before. It had long been present, he knew. Athelstan even spoke about it at times—though only obliquely. He’d spoken to Ragnar about the Christian sacrament of penance, and the release he’d once gained from it. He admitted to missing the ritual, even after he stopped acknowledging the Christ-god as his own. He’d spoken, too, about those strange Christians who called themselves _flagellants_ and whipped their own flesh to feel closer to their scourged God. Pain was not just an uncomfortable reality for Athelstan’s people—it was a necessary and even holy experience. Ragnar could not say he understood the impulse, exactly, but he respected its power, even as he resented the hold it had over Athelstan.

The Saxon made his decision and something like calm washed over his face. Turning away from Ragnar, he stripped off his tunic and shirt and laid them over a convenient tree branch. His back was still a little raw from the ship-board whipping—a few red welts still visible even a week later, though the wounds had scabbed and closed. Fresh bruises were beginning to rise where Torstein had introduced him to the ground at great speed, but they did not seem to trouble him. Moving easily and almost gracefully, he crossed to the indicated boulder and stretched out on the smooth stone, his arms coming up to dangle above his head. 

Ragnar removed his belt and tested the leather against his hand. The slap drew no reaction from his former slave. He approached Athelstan and sat beside him for a moment, his fingertips tracing lightly over the red marks. Athelstan twitched away. He didn’t want gentleness—not yet. Still, Ragnar paused to speak in a low voice. “You can change your mind at any time. Ask me to stop and I will.”

Athelstan considered that without looking at him. Then he slowly shook his head. “I . . . I don’t think I can.” Alarmed, Ragnar took his chin and made him face him, but Athelstan’s face was more composed than he was expecting. “It doesn’t work like that. I have to . . . I have to _not_ want it before it can help.”

Ragnar’s lips pursed. He cast around for a moment and then picked up a smooth stick, about two feet long. He pressed it into Athelstan’s hands. “Grip this, then, for as long as you can. If you drop it, I will know to stop.” Athelstan nodded, understanding and gratitude mingling on his face. He turned his head to the stone and took several long breaths.

Ragnar stepped back, but paused a moment, struck by sudden doubts. It was one thing to punish a man for his own good when the wrongdoing was clear, but this . . . this crossed a line. Athelstan’s guilt was mostly imagined. Under normal circumstances, he would not even think of beating a man for such a simple mistake. What if Athelstan came to his senses and hated him for this? And even if he didn’t, Ragnar knew this would change their relationship irrevocably. Their lives were forever in flux, it seemed. They’d no sooner settled into their roles as master and slave before being made earl and subject. As teacher and student, their relationship had shifted and changed like quicksand before settling into something like normalcy, with Ragnar teaching Athelstan the fighting arts and Athelstan committing all his energies to them. And now this . . . whatever it was would upend them once again.

But, Athelstan needed it. The calm creeping across his face looked so much like relief—like a cool drink under the blazing sun or a soft bed at the end of a long day. He’d followed Ragnar across seas, leaving behind everything he knew more than once. Needing— _wanting_ —this pain could not have been an easy thing for him to admit. Ragnar owed it to him to look out for his interests—to give him what he needed, however strange it might seem.

He swung the belt so that it clapped across Athelstan’s upper back. The younger man let out a half-strangled sound that seemed disproportionate to the pain inflicted. Ragnar hesitated, but Athelstan was clutching the stick in a white-knuckled grip. He needed this.

Ragnar started with light strokes, warming up the skin so that it would not break under heavier blows. After that first cry, Athelstan was silent. His eyes were closed, his face intent, but his was the focus of a man at work on untying a difficult knot, not a grimace of pain. Ragnar tried a few heavier strikes, careful to stay well above his kidneys and well below his neck. That was all it took for the knot to come loose. Athelstan’s face relaxed and he let out a sigh. 

Keeping one eye on the stick, still clutched in both of the man’s hands, Ragnar tried to settle into a rhythm that would allow Athelstan to think of nothing but the next blow. A furrow grew between his friend’s brows as the blows began to add up, the leather landing on rising welts and week-old wounds. Athelstan let out a few more small sounds—grunts and tiny cries. A few times, the stick twitched in his hands as if he meant to fling it away, but he never did. As he’d said, he needed to _not_ want it before it could help.

Ragnar was close to drawing blood. He would have to stop soon, whether Athelstan wished it or not. He dropped another blow . . . another . . . and something shifted once again as Athelstan seemed to come _past_ the pain. His mouth opened for a moment, gasping for air, and then his face relaxed fully, sliding towards something blissful. He all but arched into the next strike . . . and the next . . . Ragnar landed one more strike just to see that flicker of euphoria. Then, he let his belt drop to the ground.

When the next blow did not come, Athelstan froze for a moment. He drew a few shaky breaths before opening his eyes. Ragnar came to sit beside him and pushed against his shoulder in a friendly way. Athelstan made to sit up, but Ragnar clasped the back of his neck. “Be still a moment.” The Saxon obeyed, and Ragnar ran light fingertips over his back, watching how he alternately shied away and arched into his hand. His fingers slid back to the unmarked neck. He squeezed it again and massaged gently for a few moments. “Better?”

Athelstan looked up at him and smiled a little, looking more like himself than he had since leaving Kattegat. “Much. Thank you.”

He sat up, collected his clothes and shook them out. All the while, they sat together but facing in different directions. “You knew, didn’t you?” Ragnar said at last, “That you . . . needed this. That’s why you’ve been picking fights with Floki every other evening.”

“Floki picks fights with _me,_ ” Athelstan said, but there was a smile in his voice, “But, yes, I . . . forced your hand on the boat. I am sorry.”

“How long have you known?” Ragnar asked, “About this need?”

Athelstan shrugged, then hissed a little as he pulled his shirt on. “I think some part of me has known for a long time. When I was still a slave, I only knew that timely discipline . . . helped. It was only after I was freed that I began to miss it. And _need_ it.”

“And this was not something you could do for yourself? After the manner of your people?”

Athelstan shook his head. “I never was much of a flagellant, though I tried it a few times in my youth. It was always . . . awkward. Unsatisfying. It wouldn’t have helped.”

Ragnar shook his head. “I wish you would have said something.”

Athelstan snorted. “Yes, I’m sure that would have gone well. ‘Good evening, my earl. I need you to flog me for no apparent reason.’”

“We’ve had stranger conversations.”

The torchlight played off of Athelstan’s smile. “I suppose you’re right.” He suddenly sobered. “I thought you would think me mad. Or _weak._ ”

Ragnar abandoned his brief glances and turned to face him fully. He clasped Athelstan’s chin. “Why should you think that? Because you have needs I might not understand?” He drew back his hand and pointed a steady finger in Athelstan’s face. “The man who asks for help and is able to receive it will always be stronger than the man too proud to admit need. So, no more talk of _weakness._ ” He leaned back. “So, what’s all this about? I’ve never seen you with such a temper.”

Athelstan shook his head. A glimmer of his previous frustration could still be seen, but on a whole, he looked much more like himself. “A thousand small failings, I suppose. I cannot fight, I cannot row, I cannot even stand guard. What use am I if I cannot do these simple things?”

“Three blooded warriors stood watch with you the other night,” Ragnar pointed out, “And you did no worse than them.”

“Still, I don’t belong here. Fighting, raiding . . . I’m not made for it.”

“No one is,” Ragnar said quietly, “At first.”

Athelstan was silent for a moment. “We’re going west next season, aren’t we?”

Ragnar grunted an affirmative.

“What if I’m not up to it?”

“You will be.”

The silence this time was longer. “What if . . . what if I betray you?”

Ragnar looked at him. Athelstan’s face held much trepidation, but he was himself again. He wore his heart on his sleeve, like always. “You won’t.” He had never been surer of anything. He was suddenly weary of what-ifs. He rose and drew Athelstan with him. “Come. You need a drink. And gods know I do.”

Athelstan might have had more to say, but he followed obediently. Ragnar led him back to the laughter and the drinking and the revelry, back to the warriors victorious for the day but hungry for more, back to whatever fate had in store for them, back to their people. And the demons Athelstan struggled with were drowned out and driven back. 

At least for a while.

_Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! As always, reviews and concrit make me smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! The second part will be posted soon. Reviews and concrit are always appreciated.


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